Hanging Around In The Pyrenees

Chapter 2

Chapter 2We return to our chairs. There is no point in standing around waiting for the emergency services to arrive or for the corpse to decompose and stink further. After some time, a car arrives from Ceret with two young police officers inside, then a couple of minutes later, a fire service vehicle. I am disappointed that my friend, Jean, is not one of the pompiers on the truck.

“Does anyone recognise the hanged man?” I ask. I am met with blank stares.

“I don't think he lives locally or one of us would surely know him,” a fireman says, and we all nod in agreement.

Another vehicle approaches. Inside is my assistant Paul. He joins us.

“Poullet is on his way. Pierre Junot is driving him. You might want to put on your lipstick, Boss,” he adds, making a joke.

“How on earth did Junot hear about this?” I ask. “The last thing I want is that i***t snapping away with his camera and making stupid assumptions.”

Pierre Junot is our local photographer and sometimes he works as a freelance journalist.

“Doctor Poullet's car is in the garage. Remember it failed its CT because all the tyres were bald, and the emissions were poisonous. Junot is his neighbour,” Paul explains.

“Merde,” I reply. “Why didn't you drive the old fool?”

“I tried, Boss, but he said Junot's car is bigger and more comfortable.”

“He should go on a diet,” I reply bitterly. “He's the size of a baby elephant. With all of us hanging around, this is becoming a circus.”

Eventually, an old battered Peugot comes into view. It is backfiring and coughing its way along the track. It splutters and jumps before stopping behind the fire truck. Junot leaps out, his camera swinging from a strap around his neck.

“If he gets in my way I'll suspend him from that and hang him next to the corpse,” I hiss, and Paul laughs.

The passenger door is thrown open. “Junot, Junot, get me out of this contraption,” the unmistakeable voice of Doctor Poullet calls. It takes Junot and a laughing Paul a few moments to extricate his enormous bulk from the car. The doctor mops at his sweaty face with a damp, limp handkerchief. “Well, where is the unfortunate man? Are we going to stand around all day? Has someone brought a picnic? Maybe we'll play petanque,” he scowls.

“This way my friend,” I reply, pointing the way.

“Do we know who he is?” Poullet asks.

“Nobody recognises him, but perhaps you or Junot will enlighten us,” I reply.

Once again, we all stand around observing the corpse which is gently swinging in the breeze.

Poullet sighs audibly and mops his brow again. “His name is Henri Boudin. He is sixty-four years of age and yesterday evening he dined on a very fine cassoulet. He used to live in Ceret, but now he resides in Argeles.”

“You can tell all that just by looking at the corpse hanging there?” Junot asks incredulously.

“No, you i***t,” Poullet replies, “I can tell you this because he is my wife's cousin and he dined with us last night.”

We are shocked. All of us stand in stunned silence uncomfortable that one of our numbers is connected to a suicide. It is as if Poullet has let off a fart. We are embarrassed for him, but don't know how to move on. After a moment, he says, “I'm feeling a bit faint. I must sit down.” The awkwardness is broken, and we rally to assist him.

“Here, Doctor, sit down here,” Junot says, and I'm pleased to see him indicating towards a wide tree stump and not one of my folding chairs which would never hold Poullet's bulk.

Junot begins to snap away with his camera.

“Have you no compassion?” Paul says shortly. “Our friend has just lost his cousin.”

“My wife's cousin,” Poullet corrects. “I hardly knew the man and I'd never really taken to him; we had nothing in common. But one thing is certain, he was not suicidal when I was with him last night. Something doesn't add up.”

“Perhaps the Doc's company was simply too much to bear,” one of the cops from Ceret mutters, cracking a joke with his colleague to lighten the mood.

“I'm commandeering your photos, Junot,” I instruct. This might not be all it seems. We could be standing in a crime scene.

“What should we do about the body?” a fireman asks. “Should we lift him down? We can't leave him hanging there in the sun or he'll turn into a kebab.”

All eyes are on the doctor.

“Yes, yes, cut him down. I think you'll learn more from asking me questions and from the autopsy. There's no reason to keep him hanging around. You'd better ask Doctor Picard to do the post mortem as I'm connected to Henri, and for all you know, I could have murdered the man.”

“But you didn't kill him Doctor, did you?” Paul asks the direct question that somehow has become stuck in my throat.

“No, I did not, and before you ask, neither did my wife's cooking.”

I arrange for Paul to take Patricia and Ollee home, so I can concentrate on the job in hand. So much for having a day off, I think. Then I spend the next hour taking notes.

“Where is Henri's car?” Poullet asks. “Has someone driven it back to town?”

“What car?” I ask aloud. “I haven't seen a car.”

“So, you thought he walked halfway up a mountain, at night, carrying a ladder?” Poullet says, and he raises his eyebrows at me. “And I thought you were clever, Danielle. Where did he get the ladder? Do people just leave random ladders lying around? Isn't that usual?” He and Junot exchange smirks and I feel my face redden.

“I have many questions which need to be answered,” I reply. “There would be no reason for the police to investigate if all crimes came solved and neatly packaged. Besides, there is still the chance Henri killed himself.”

“Not likely,” Poullet replies stubbornly.

“Not likely,” Junot agrees.

I scowl at Junot. “Go home,” I say. “You're finished here.”

“But perhaps…,” he begins.

“Perhaps nothing,” I say. “Go home and take the doctor with you. He's had a bad shock,” I add, leaving him no excuse to remain.

“I would like to leave now, Monsieur Junot, please. We can talk in the car. I still have to inform my poor wife about her cousin.”

“Of course, Doctor. Right away, Doctor. Let me open the car door for you, Doctor. We can indeed talk in the car.” He flashes me a triumphant smile and I'm so annoyed I could slap him.

“This is an ongoing case,” I say, as Poullet throws himself into the passenger seat rocking the car alarmingly. “You must not discuss it with anyone.”

Junot slams the door shut then goes around to the driver's side and climbs in.

“Yeah, right,” he answers then he starts the engine and pulls away in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

“Bastard,” I say, and I bang my clenched fist on my forehead with frustration.

After I gather the information I require, I leave the junior officers to finish things off at the scene then I telephone Paul and arrange to meet him in the office. We will have to formally interview Doctor and Madame Poullet, a task I'm dreading. He'll need the words dragged from his lips and she will never shut up. Neither will be able to tell us much, I suspect. Then I call Patricia to make sure she got home, and she answers on the third ring.

“Is that you finished now, Danielle? Are you on your way home?”

When I explain that I must go into work, I can hear the disappointment in her voice, but she knows my hands are tied and there's nothing I can do.

“Don't worry about us,” she replies. “Ollee and I will go for a walk then I'll cook something special for dinner. I'll open a bottle of good red wine to let it breathe. At least we'll be able to relax in the garden when you do return. After this month ends and things become quieter you'll be able to take most Saturdays off.”

She's right, of course; things do wind down in November. And in December, when Le Therme, the spa, closes for the winter and all the 'curists' go home, the town too seems to shut down.

As I drive back, I try to formulate in my head the questions I need answered. I also find myself staring into fields and lanes in case I see Henri Boudin's car. Poullet said it was a blue Renault estate with a roof rack and a tow bar. He also told me it had bumps the length of the passenger side where Henri had an accident with a gate post while parking, so it shouldn't be too difficult to identify. If Henri drove himself to the field and his car is gone then the person who drove it away is involved in his death. But why he was killed, and who this person is, is a complete mystery to me.